


Film Noir Creek

by Oakentide



Category: South Park
Genre: Alternate Universe, Film Noir, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-11-29 09:48:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18221504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oakentide/pseuds/Oakentide
Summary: Tweek Tweak is a cynical private detective in the post-WWII United States and Craig Tucker is a desperate client who has fallen on hard times.





	Film Noir Creek

**Author's Note:**

> The archive warnings are for chapters planned, but not written. To avoid spoiling plot developments by the chapter for readers who choose not to heed these warnings, but provide a warning by chapter, I'll put the chapter numbers each warning applies to in the end notes of this first chapter once they're written.
> 
> More character and pairing tags will be added as they're written; for example I'd prefer this to not show up in searches for Bebe until she's in the story proper.

Tweek Tweak sank further into his chair, tattered kicks marring the worn finish on his ancient mahogany desk. He was wilting under the dull, humid heat, complete with sweat matting his hair down. The tiny fan on his desk whirred, but he barely felt it on his face. He needed a breeze, but it might sooner storm, instead. You'd think the overcast sky would be some respite. But you'd be wrong.

He sighed, and closed his eyes. A shimmering chequered cloth, cyan and royal blue, sequins catching the candle light. Tweek hadn't had a good lead on any of his cases for a few days, so on quiet days like this he tried to remember conversations. A twitch of the lips, a brushing of the dress. These days he had the luxury of hindsight. The flourish of that handkerchief was the first sign of trouble he saw in that other life. Now, he remembered a face, a body, and speech, all _brimming_ with tells. He couldn’t go back, but for any one of his cold cases there might be something important he’d missed. There were a dozen or so conversations he could still recall perfectly, but hadn’t processed.

He could swear he was on the verge of finding some elusive, important detail when the banging of his office door shook him out of the reverie. His first reaction was to resent this, but the second to acknowledge an uncomfortable truth: he was spinning his wheels. He _needed_ an easy case right now, so he could eat well. Another few days of rice and beans, and his eyes would start to strain, and noticing fine details was fast becoming his speciality. Tweek’s stomach growled with a prescient wish to be filled with anything at all. He called out, "Door's unlocked."

A tall figure, stern face softened with weariness, strode through the door, jet black hair swept in a fringe with choppy textures. He stood proud, even as what must be his only suit was obviously fraying, in spite of an amateur tailoring effort. He'd probably done it himself, and he was a fair seamster, but the average stitching stuck out on such a fine suit. Weariness gave way to desperation as the man noticed Tweek notice, but Tweek couldn't help it, and hadn't meant to judge. He needed his client at ease.

"Tweek Tweak. How may I help you, Sir?"

The man reached into his blazer pocket, cupping something carefully after withdrawing it. He took a few moments to stare at it, forlornly, before carefully laying it on the desk. Who knew what story was behind this ring, which Tweek was obviously going to pawn by day's end? Sometimes he learned after a case was finished. If the client was still alive.

"The name's Tucker. I need you to investigate a former...." He hesitated, pained, though Tweek wasn't sure exactly why. "... _acquaintance_ of mine. Consider this an advance payment, irrespective of what you find, or whether you find anything." As Tweek put it in his desk drawer, the man added, "I can't bear to look at it anymore." Tweek had followed his eyes in his peripheral vision, and was disappointed to see they were more truthful than his mouth. Tweek didn’t usually need truth from a client - we're all entitled to lie to ourselves, which is what the man was really doing. Tweek still hadn't eaten, but his stomach was already full. Of fucking _butterflies_. This was going to be _very_ complicated job.

 


End file.
